I wake early. Before Jared. Even before the birthday boy himself. I could barely sleep last night, finally drifting off just before dawn. My heart wouldn’t stop racing, my brain churning around like a piece of chewing gum in someone’s mouth. So I give up trying to get back to sleep. Instead, easing back the covers and sliding out of bed. I throw on a tracksuit and tiptoe down the stairs, slipping my feet into trainers. The heating hasn’t come on yet. At least the chill air inside makes it easier to step out into the dank, grey morning.

I’m not normally the first up on a Sunday. I prefer to light a fire and curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, rather than leave the house. But I can’t wait. I need to get to the corner shop. It’s drizzling, a fine mist turning my hair to frizz. I don’t have a hood so I step up my pace, my trainers hardly making a sound on the wet, leaf-strewn pavement. No one else is around. It’s just me.

After a brisk five-minute walk, the shop comes into view – a splash of tatty, garish colour in an otherwise grey street. The news stand on the pavement proclaims that a pensioner was attacked in her home and the perpetrator is still loose. A man is untying his Labrador from the bike railings outside. He nods good morning to me and I give him a brief smile in return.

Pushing open the wire-lined glass door, I enter the brightly lit shop. A bell jangles above me and the young woman behind the counter looks up and smiles. I mumble a croaky good morning and shift my gaze to the neatly stacked Sunday papers. Feeling slightly nauseous, I lift a copy of my paper. Only, it isn’t my paper any more. Slotting the heavy weekend edition under my arm, I make my way to the back of the store – may as well pick up some more milk while I’m here. A family-sized bar of Dairy Milk calls out to me, so I grab it on my way back to the counter. Maybe a thick slab of chocolate will help dull the pain of reading Darcy’s new column.

The woman puts my purchases in a bag and I hand over a fiver. I probably shouldn’t even have bought the damn paper. And yet I can’t very well tell Darcy I haven’t read it. She’d think it was sour grapes. She’d be right, but I can’t let her know that. Maybe these things happen for a reason, I tell myself as the woman hands me my change. Maybe this disappointment will spur me to finish my novel and I’ll land a big, fat publishing deal.

I step back outside to see the rain is clearing, revealing a faint patch of blue sky. I’m keen to get home before Joe wakes up. It’s his big day today. I stride back home, less despondent and anxious than earlier. I have a lot to be grateful for. My son is eight today and he’s got a wonderful party planned. Looks like the weather might turn out okay, too.

The front door is stiff, swollen with rain. Finally, I manage to shove it open and step inside. I tip my head to the side and listen for any noises but the house is silent apart from the hum of the boiler. Jared and Joe must still be asleep. I check my watch – it’s still only 6.40 a.m. My stomach rumbles, demanding breakfast. I’ll wait until the others are awake. For now, I just need a moment of peace to read.

I slide the paper from the bag, along with the bar of chocolate. I’ll put the milk away afterwards. For now, I leave it on the floor in the hall. The door to the lounge creaks as I ease it open and settle myself on the sofa, opening up the Lifestyle supplement. My page has always been about one-third in, a three-column spread with my photo at the top – a picture I’ve always secretly liked as I look young and slightly edgy. Today, for the first Sunday in three years, my photo has been replaced with the model-like image of Darcy Lane staring down the lens. It’s a tongue-in-cheek photo, with a nod to the early sixties. Think Bewitched meets Audrey Hepburn.

I reach for the Dairy Milk, run my nail across the wrapper and break off a line. No one’s here to see me so I shove all four squares into my mouth at once, letting the creamy sweetness soothe my hurt. Darcy Lane has been given a full page spread.

I skim the headline, Darcy’s short bio, and then the first few paragraphs, but there’s no mention of me or my old column. It’s as though I never was. I force myself to read the whole thing, beginning to end. It’s brilliant, interesting and funny. Uncharitably, I wish that it had been a pile of absolute shit. That the guest post she originally wrote for me had been a fluke. But, of course, it wasn’t. I have to face the fact that Darcy Lane is a better writer than me – even if she isn’t necessarily a better person. She did effectively eject me from my job, after all. Perhaps she doesn’t know? Surely, after reading today’s paper, and seeing my column’s missing, she’ll realise that.

‘Party time!’ Jared says an hour later, shimmying into the kitchen doing a seventies-style Travolta dance.

‘You’re so embarrassing, Dad,’ Joe says covering his face.

‘Sit down, both of you,’ I say. ‘One special birthday breakfast coming up.’

‘With bacon and fried bread?’ Joe asks.

‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘And scrambled egg, mushrooms and asparagus.’

‘I hate asparagus,’ Joe says, screwing up his face.

‘But we made you an asparagus birthday cake,’ Jared says.

Joe rolls his eyes, already wise to his father’s teasing.

Jared starts pretend-boxing with Joe. ‘Let’s see how strong you are, now you’re eight. Can you take me down yet? Come on, Joe Bo, gimme your best shot.’

The smile on Joe’s face fills my chest with an ache of love. Jared catches my eye and we grin at one another, shared adoration of our son binding us together. He’s wearing his birthday present – a brand new AFC Bournemouth kit. His sturdy legs clad in black and red socks, and a pair of brand new football boots on his feet.

‘Sit down, guys,’ I say again. ‘Before it gets cold.’

They do as I ask, picking up their knives and forks and tucking in. I sit and join them.

‘Reckon you’re going to score today, buddy?’ Jared asks.

‘Yeah,’ Joe says through a mouthful of toast. ‘Course.’

‘Think you can manage a hat trick?’

‘Definitely.’

They polish off their plates in record time.

‘Have you had enough?’ I ask.

‘Erm…’ they both reply in unison.

We all dissolve into laughter.

‘I’ll make some more toast, shall I?’

‘Yes please,’ Joe says.

I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s 8.30 a.m. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour to get there at this time on a Sunday morning. Darcy said to get there by 9.30, so as long as we leave by nine, we should be fine. I slice up some more bread and stick it in the toaster.

At 9.25 am, we pull up outside the football stadium.

‘Mummy, my tummy feels a bit funny,’ Joe says.

‘It’s probably just butterflies,’ I say, hoping that’s all it is. ‘Does it feel a bit fluttery and worried?’

‘Yes.’

Jared turns around to face Joe, who’s in the back seat, his face creased and a little pale. ‘You’ll be fine, buddy,’ Jared says. ‘It’s just the excitement. Even the top players get butterflies before a match.’

‘Really?’ Joe says, his voice brightening a little.

‘Just have fun,’ I say. ‘All your friends will be here soon. Once you see them, you’ll be fine.’

Jared gets out of the car and comes around to the passenger side so he can take Joe’s cake off my lap before I get out. I didn’t dare put it in the boot of the car in case it slid around and got squashed.

‘Have you got Tyler’s present?’ I ask Joe as he steps out of the car.

He turns, reaches into the back seat and grabs the parcel. I pick up my handbag and the bag of decorations – balloons, streamers and party poppers – and Jared locks the car.

We walk across the car park to the main building. This morning’s grey murk has disappeared, and now it’s bright and clear with a wintery nip in the air, perfect weather for a football party. Jared is still carrying the cake and pushes open the glass door with his elbow as we all traipse inside.

The foyer is empty apart from an A-frame chalkboard which squats in the middle of the space with helium balloons tied to it. On it is written: ‘Tyler Lane’s Birthday Party’ and an arrow which points towards a corridor.

Where’s Joe’s name? I mouth to Jared over our son’s head.

Jared raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders. Luckily, Joe doesn’t pick up on the error. I scan the foyer, looking for places where I might find a piece of chalk. If I can add Joe’s name before his friends arrive…

I dump my bags on the floor and scoot behind the reception desk, rifling through the drawers and shelves.

‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ Joe asks, his forehead wrinkling. ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to—’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m just looking for something. I won’t be long.’

‘Leave it, Lou,’ Jared hisses. ‘It doesn’t matter. No one else will notice.’

‘I’m sure there must be some chalk here somewh—’

‘Mummy, come on,’ Joe says. ‘I want to find Tyler.’

Reluctantly I stop my search, and leave the desk, retrieving my bags. I feel like wiping Tyler’s name off the chalkboard so that it simply says: ‘Birthday Party’. If Joe’s name isn’t on there, Tyler’s name shouldn’t be on there either. But that would be petty and out of order. So I grit my teeth and leave the board how it is, inhaling deeply, trying to regain my good mood.

We follow more signs – thankfully these just say ‘Party this way’. After a couple of minutes weaving our way through corridors and up staircases, we find ourselves in a plush bar overlooking the pitch. This must be the VIP spectator area. Joe runs over to the glass wall at the far end, pressing his hands and face against the window. Below, the whole Bournemouth team are kitted out and going through some kind of training exercise.

Joe is pointing and yelling out players’ names. Jared joins him at the window and I forget my earlier annoyance about the board, enjoying watching Joe’s delight at seeing his heroes in the flesh.

‘Guys, you’re here!’

I turn toward the voice. Darcy is standing in a doorway at the far end of the bar. She looks incredible, dressed in a designer tracksuit, her blonde hair in two plaits which make her look like a fifteen-year-old Swedish schoolgirl. I see Jared’s eyes widen as he turns to greet her. In contrast, I’m wearing a knee-length, flowery dress, boots and a smart jacket. I thought I looked chic before we left the house, but now I feel like a frumpy mum.

‘Through here!’ Darcy beckons us over.

Jared peels a reluctant Joe away from the viewing gallery and heads over towards her. She bends down to kiss Joe, then she puts her hand on Jared’s arm and kisses him on both cheeks. They’re smiling at one other as I approach.

‘Louisa, you look gorgeous,’ she says. ‘Love the dress. And how did you get such heavenly curls? Lucky you!’

‘Thanks,’ I say, kissing a perfumed cheek. ‘You look gorgeous, too.’

‘Oh, God, no. I didn’t dress up. Just threw on a tracksuit. I really should’ve made more of an effort, like you.’

Somehow, this doesn’t feel like a compliment.

Darcy leads us into a small function room, lavishly decorated with streamers, and balloons sporting the caption: ‘Happy Birthday Tyler!’ And, just in case we still can’t guess whose birthday it is, an enormous professionally made vinyl banner hangs from the ceiling proclaiming: ‘Happy 8^th Birthday, Tyler!’

The Lanes must have been here since about eight o’clock this morning decorating the room. The table is laid with divine mini cupcakes, tiny triangle sandwiches, crisps and individual soda bottles. The piece de resistance is a giant 3D cake in the shape of a white leather football, which appears to have been signed by the whole of the Bournemouth football team in icing – How the hell did Darcy manage that? Again, Tyler’s name is emblazoned across the top. My Marks and Spencer pre-bought football cake is going to look absolutely pathetic sitting alongside that work of art.

‘Did you want to hang out Joe’s banner and balloons?’ Darcy asks.

I turn to her, my face flushing red with embarrassment and anger that I’m desperately trying to keep in check. Jared is blithely unaware of my humiliation, already deep in conversation with his new best buddy, Mike. And Joe and Tyler are charging around the room, playing keepy-uppy with a few stray ‘Tyler’ balloons.

‘I have some balloons and streamers,’ I say. ‘But they don’t have Joe’s name on… I didn’t think we were—’

‘Oh.’ Darcy pouts as if she’s surprised. ‘That’s a shame. Do you need any help putting them up?’

‘I didn’t realise you were getting named decorations,’ I say, ‘or I would’ve—’

‘Didn’t we discuss all the decorations at Flora’s?’ she asks, frowning. ‘I thought we went over all that?’

I know for a fact that she absolutely did not mention named decorations. My heart rate has doubled, and I feel a deep pull of disappointment in my gut. Is this woman trying to outmanoeuvre me? Is Darcy playing some subtle game of one-upmanship? But there’s a niggle of doubt in my chest. Why would she do that? What would be the point? She’s the woman with everything. I can’t even begin to compete with her. I must be mistaken. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m overreacting. Seeing things where there’s nothing to see. Imagining malice where there is none. I need to snap out of it.